The Ultimate Challenge: Revised Edition
by Sherlock 2K
Summary: All seems well to Holmes and Watson at the end of the 19th Century--the Moriarty gang have long been disbanded and put to prison. Yet a letter and a curious absence changes this, dragging Holmes into the adventure of his life. New Chapter Up!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Characters in the Sherlockian Universe are not owned by me, ::sigh::**

**A/N: Well, this is the one that started it all… After rereading many times, and taking in all the comments from the lovely reviewers (thanks to all), I decided that this story deserved a little filling out and touching up. The plot will stay essentially the same, but hopefully the writing has improved (5 years experience should do that). Please enjoy the revised Ultimate Challenge. **

**This story is dedicated to puella, whose comments greatly helped in the revision process. Thanks!**

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**Prologue-**

_Drip, drip, drip_

The ever-present sound of water drops against hard stone drags me into consciousness as steadily as if a hand had pulled me from within the eternal darkness.

There is no up or down in this place, and no source of light to speak of. There is only me in this hard, wooden chair that creaks every time I try to move. I feel the rough texture of rope grating against my tightly bound wrists and ankles, and wince slightly as a splinter of wood or the rusty head of a nail digs into my shifting back. My pounding head is still throbbing painfully where I had been struck, and I feel the slight trickle of blood tickling my chin before it falls and joins the chorus of water droplets.

Someone will come for me, I'm sure of it.

_Drip, drip, drip_

There it is. A blinding shaft of yellow light streams into this gloomy place, piercing the darkness with its brilliance. As I blink away the dark spots dancing in my vision, a dark outline appears starkly silhouetted against the glowing aura of radiance.

"Mr. Holmes," a familiar voice calls out from the doorway in a falsely sanguine tone. "I trust that your stay here has not been too uncomfortable."

"It has been sufficient," I answer back as calmly as I can with an eyebrow raised, playing along with his game for now. The silhouetted figure slowly approaches, his steps resounding sharply against the hard slabs of granite. He stops before me, and stoops so we face each other eye to eye. His piercing azure orbs harden as he narrows his eyes into slits. 

"How did you escape?" I ask, with my tone surprisingly hoarse from thirst. 

"That's my little secret," the voice replies curtly, before the man raises himself to his full height. "I have a proposition for you, Mr. Holmes."

"I am not interested in any of your petty offers."

My reply takes the man off guard for a moment, as his eyes widen slightly before hardening threateningly. "It is in your interest to comply. . . However, I am willing to be generous. Pray reconsider, or else I might put you to some other use."

Footsteps echo once again as the tall dark figure retreats back to the portal of light from whence he came. 

"I will return tomorrow," the figure calls, before disappearing into the dazzling brightness.

A creaking of rusty hinges grate on my tense nerves as the shaft of light narrows, and then disappears once more. I am plunged once again into eternal night.

_Drip, drip, drip_


	2. The Straying of Jupiter

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and related characters still don't belong to me, alas…**

**A/N: Hey, guys! Thanks to coolpuella and Shannon Holmes for their wonderful reviews! You really know how to encourage an author. I'm glad that I've managed to make the story more interesting so far…lets see if I can continue this streak. This chapter will follow more along the lines of Doyle's regular style. After all, the case does need to be presented. I've added in something extra so you don't get bored. **

**By the way, I'm going to try updating weekly, though that might prove difficult once school starts again ::shudders at thought at final, thesis, and interdisciplinary project due in same month:: Anyways, don't let me spoil your fun…Enjoy and Happy Holidays!**

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**Chapter 1-**

As I peered out from the arched window on the farthest corner of the parlour, I was greeted by the last light of the icy winter's sun as it glistened over the soot-covered rooftops. The entire city had been enveloped in a blanket of quiet tranquillity from the first snow of the last winter in this dying century. My eyes lazily trailed the tiny flakes as they slowly drifted and twirled in swirling flurries from the unending heavens, landing into the blanket of pure and shimmering white below. 

A sharp chuckle diverted my attention from the winter wonderland outside, and I turned to see my long-time companion leaning languidly on a nearby chair. "Enjoying the view, Watson?" he asked, with a glint in his steel-grey eyes and a sardonic grin plastered onto his gaunt face. 

"Yes, I am, actually," I retorted, returning my gaze to the window. "At least one of us can appreciate the yuletide scenery, Holmes."

"Why, Watson, I'm hurt that you think I do not relish nature's splendour at a time like this," Holmes gasped out, and I could see him mockingly place his hands to his heart in the reflection on the frosted glass pane. "Just because I don't waste my time gazing out frivolously at blizzards, doesn't mean that I can't take the time to stop and smell the roses per se," he added drolly with a much more sarcastic tone.

I frowned, and sighed exasperatedly as I rolled my eyes. "You're incorrigible, Holmes."

"Thank you, thank you!" he returned good-naturedly, bowing deeply with a flourish. "I like to see that I continue to amuse you."

Holmes was saved from any further rebuttal by a gentle knock sounding at our door. With three energetic strides, Holmes was at the threshold, swinging open the door to usher in the old and venerable landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

"Sorry for disturbing you, gentlemen, but there's a Mr. Arthur Cavendish here to see you," she announced quietly. The said man, bald with pearly white whiskers and a set of hardened mahogany eyes, appeared swiftly by her side from his spot in the corridor, and shook hands warmly with Holmes.

"Ah, Arthur, it's good to see you again. To what do I owe this pleasure?" Holmes asked as he beckoned the old man to a seat by the blazing hearth.

"Mr. Holmes, I have come to see you regarding your brother, Mycroft," the man stated without preamble in a rich baritone voice that, though filled with worry, could only be described as grandfatherly. "He was not present in his offices today. If it were any other man, I would dismiss this as a fluke, but this is the first time in ten years that he has been absent from his office during work hours. If I recall correctly, the last time he had deviated from his schedule was when he came to see you, so I came here to see if you know anything of his whereabouts."

Holmes's expression darkened as he took in Mr. Cavendish's statement, and sunk his chin on his breast with his eyebrows knitted in deep thought once the man seated before him had finished.

"I was unaware of my brother's absence, Arthur, and I do not know where he is now," he replied finally, gazing pensively at the bright tongues of flame licking hungrily at the log of oak in the fireplace. "This is very curious indeed. It would take nothing short of a catastrophe to move my brother from his beloved routine. Has anything of extreme urgency happened lately on the political stage?"

"I do not believe so, Mr. Holmes. Things are as quiet as they can get when the government is concerned," Cavendish answered evenly. "Most people tend to spend more time with their families than in their offices."

"Hum…when did Mycroft leave the office yesterday?" Holmes asked concernedly, fixing his stare on Cavendish's sitting figure.

"He left when he usually leaves, and nothing seemed to have been bothering him at the time."

"Did he tell you of any unusual engagements or plans that he had?"

"No, he merely bade me good-bye just as he always did."

"Have you checked at the Diogenes Club?"

"Yes, they have also missed his presence today."

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Arthur," Holmes announced as his eyes flickered back to the crackling fire. "I will look into this matter."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Cavendish replied gratefully as he rose from his seat. "Shall I call again tomorrow if your brother has not returned?"

"Very well," Holmes assented. "Good evening, Arthur."

Cavendish bowed to us both before taking his departure quietly out of the room. I turned my attention back to Holmes, to find him still silently brooding before the hearth with a grim expression on his face that told me that any questions I had would fall on deaf ears. I was about to leave the room to give him some time alone when he suddenly took out his golden pocket watch from a breast pocket in his waistcoat.

"It is six o'clock now, so we could—"

I never found out exactly what we could do, as Mrs. Hudson was once again at the door.

"Sorry for disturbing you again, but there's a letter for you, Mr. Holmes," she announced, handing Holmes a small, beige envelope sealed with purple wax before making her exit, closing the door with a quiet click behind her.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," replied Holmes as she left the room, earning a smile and a nod of acknowledgement from the aged woman. He returned to his place by the fire and was about to add it to his pile of correspondences kept in place on the mantel by a jack-knife, when he paused suddenly and strode towards the nearest table lamp, as if on a whim, to carefully examine the envelope by the bright flickering light.

"Interesting…cream coloured heavy paper bought at Murphy's Stationers at two shillings a packet. Obviously someone with high rank sent me this letter," mused Holmes distractedly as his introspective steel grey eyes darted over the envelope, quickly scrutinizing every minute detail. "Hmm, there is no address on the front. This must have been delivered by hand, then."

Flipping the envelope to the back, Holmes's piercing orbs fixed on the wax seal. He uttered a barely audible gasp and visibly blanched as he began to stalk furiously around the room, flipping the envelope over in his thin wiry hands. 

"What's wrong?"  I asked, surprised at the sudden and extreme reaction from my companion.

"The seal…the Omega seal," he muttered under his breath. "What does it mean? Omega…why...how… the old spider's dead…Omega…"

"What's Omega?" I inquired, desperately trying to stop my friend from his frantic pacing to save both the carpet and his constitution.

"It was the name of Professor Moriarty's formerly infamous organization," he answered curtly, before resuming his frantic treading. "This has something to do with Mycroft… there has to be a connection… Omega…"

He tore open the envelope as he spoke and took out the neatly folded letter with tremulous hands. His eyes widened as they flitted across the paper before closing in defeat. With a grave sigh he slowly handed the message to me. It read:

"_If you wish to see your brother Mycroft Holmes alive again, you will come to Trafalgar Square at midnight tonight. Come alone!_"

"Who on earth would be able to pull this off?" I asked incredulously, shocked at the contents of the unsigned letter. "Why would anyone go to such lengths to do this, anyway?"

"That's not important now," Holmes replied, the usual glint strangely lacking from his eyes. "I have to find out what happened to Mycroft."

"What are you going to do?" 

"Mycroft could be fine, and this might be a simple practical joke," admitted Holmes gravely. "I have received many before, but never one that's been planned this meticulously. After all, how could they have known that Mycroft was missing today?" He paused for a moment, lost in his thoughts as he gazed into the hypnotic flames, before continuing with a sigh. "Nothing can be done, but to wait and see what happens. In the meantime, I'm off to Mycroft's rooms to check if anything can be found there. Expect me back at nine."


	3. Reconnaissance

Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock Holmes…

A/N: Happy New Year, guys! Sorry about the delay in this chapter, but Christmas and New Year's sort of threw me off course (that and Chapter 3, which is going to be a kicker to write).

Thanks to all of you who reviewed. I'm really honoured that I've been able to retain Doyle's style to your satisfaction so far. Oh, and regarding Watson's ignorance to the Omega faction: most of what Watson knows about Moriarty's organization came from Holmes, and Holmes never mentioned any name for the Moriarty gang (it would have been strange calling the faction "Moriarty gang," especially since the guy's dead.)

Well, I think you've heard me ramble enough, so now on with the story!

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**Chapter 2**-

"Going out in this weather, Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson's stately voice queried, drawing me out of my reverie as I came down the flight of seventeen stairs from my rooms. I lifted my eyes from the steps before me to meet the concerned gaze of my esteemed landlady. 

"I'm afraid so," I answered curtly, earning a frown from the venerable matron. "I have some errands to run." 

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," She exclaimed with a sigh as she helped me to shrug on my coat. "You are going to catch your death out there of the cold. It's dark now, and it's still snowing out there, you know."

I sighed in both exasperation and appreciation of her mothering. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. I won't be long." With that, I slipped on my tall black top hat and made my way into Watson's so called "winter wonderland."

To say that it was merely cold outside would have been the biggest understatement of the century, I'm sure. Even as I stood on the doorstep facing the sludge-covered street, the howling gusts of bitterly icy wind nipped painfully at my cheeks and nose as they blew churning blizzards of endless snowflakes, successfully blinding me to all that was ahead and making me wish dearly for a scarf around my collar.

A hansom or brougham would have been very nice for the shelter they would inevitably have provided, but I did not hail for any cab—I needed more time to collect my thoughts and plan a logical course of action.

I made my way slowly down Baker Street, relishing the calming sound of the crunching snow beneath my feet and the billowing breaths exuding from my mouth in cloudy puffs of white mist. I was taking the same route as I had done when I set out to introduce Watson to Mycroft for the first time all those years ago. I smirked slightly, recalling the surprise on Watson's face when I had first mentioned my brother to him.

The smile faded, however, as my thoughts returned to the task at hand and Mycroft's possible well being. '_How could Moriarty have survived that fall at Reichenbach?' I pondered with a frown creasing my features. I had seen the former professor very distinctly as his body had collided with a boulder at the bottom of the waterfall. There was no way that he could have survived the fall._

'_But if not Moriarty, then who has come to take his place?' _Moran would certainly be the most capable man for the job, but the man had been sentenced to hard labour in the Australian colonies at his trial. 

'_Could he have escaped and made his way back to England so quickly?' _It was very unlikely, I conceded as I sauntered on; but, when all other alternatives were impossible, the remaining option, however improbable, must be the truth.

'_So, Moran is at the bottom of this,'_ I concluded gravely. '_But why indeed would he go to so much trouble to get my attention? If the man had simply wanted revenge, then I would be seeing Mycroft's name in the obituaries, not in a note sealed with the Omega faction hallmark containing an idle threat and a place of appointment within.'_

My turbulent thoughts were abruptly halted by an impeccably aimed snowball that landed squarely on my chest.

"Oh, look what you've done now, Tom!" a young, rosy-cheeked girl clad in a warm woollen hat shouted angrily as she ran up to where I stood. "I'm so sorry sir; it was an accident," she apologised hurriedly as she helped me wipe the slush ball from my coat.

"Don't worry," I assured with a smile as soon as I overcome my astonishment. "It's just a little wet."

Her light hazel eyes were filled with relief as she gazed up into mine, a grateful smile caressing her face for a brief instance before her features contorted into a scowl at the smaller boy who had appeared by her side.

"Apologise, Tom," she chided crossly, fixing the lad with the sternest look I had seen since I was in school.

To his credit, Tom obeyed meekly, quietly muttering, "Sorry," before offering a sheepish smile in reconciliation.

"It's quite all right," I answered soothingly with a smirk on my own lips. "That was the best aimed snowball I've seen for quite a while. You'd make a fine cricket player."

I continued on my route once I had extracted toothy grins from both of them, listening idly to the older girl giving her "just wait till I tell mum what happened" speech. My thoughts became irrevocably fixed on her honey-coloured eyes, and I could see them plainly in my mind's eye. "Oh, Leona," I heard myself whisper in almost a daze.

I turned to see the children disappear into the torrents of snow—much like my sister had many winters before. "I'm sorry," I uttered softly, knowing that I had more to repent for than they ever did. Sighing deeply, I resumed my course with a grim determination; I would not let Mycroft follow Leona into shadow.

***

It seemed that I had gotten myself too engrossed by my own thoughts, because before I had realised, I found myself standing at the steps to Mycroft's lodgings. All the windows were lighted except his, causing the crease between my eyebrows to deepen as I knocked on the entrance.

"Mr. 'Olmes!" the wizened old landlord barked in surprise upon opening the door. "What brings you 'ere?"

"I'm just here to pay a visit to my brother," I answered simply as I crossed the threshold. 

The man, senile as he was, peered at me suspiciously for a moment before shrugging and slinking off. "I've not seen 'ide or 'air of 'im, Mr. 'Olmes, but enjoy your visit."

I crept silently up the narrow wooden staircase, wary of its creaking steps and fragile banister. I slipped the brass key to my brother's rooms out of my pocket as I approached the second door to the right in the corridor, only to find that it was already slightly ajar. The door rasped slightly on its poorly oiled hinges as I carefully pushed it open, and it only swung out half way—its path obstructed by a fallen chair.

The only source of illumination was a bright shaft of moonlight from one of the open windows, but even from this mediocre light source, it was easy to see that the rest of the room was in complete disarray. All around me, desks, tables, and chairs of all sizes had been broken and toppled haphazardly onto the carpeted floor. The long velvet drapes that had hung from the tall windows and the few photographs that had adorned the walls were tangled messily amongst the other clutter littered the Persian rug. Countless tomes and sheaves of paperwork, files, and other documents strewn across folds of cloth and the rods of furniture completed the image of an indoor blizzard rivalling the blanket of snow outside. 

A glint of silver caught my eye as I had knelt to closely examine some of the papers. The light emanated from a broken crystal decanter which had reflected some of the silver moonlight. Carefully stepping over the cluttered debris in the room, I approached the shattered vessel which lay on the floor beside a toppled sofa. Dark red splotches of blood were splattered on the light carpet and Mycroft's broken pince-nez, which lay glistening on the plush sofa. Beside it, an envelope of heavy crème paper had been placed so carefully that it was the only item in the room which still retained a semblance of neatness. Its W stamped on a seal of purple wax leered and mocked me as I pocketed the pince-nez and extricated the envelope's contents with increased foreboding. There was only a thin sheet of paper torn hastily from a notebook within, and on unfolding the sheet, I saw a message sloppily scrawled which read:

"_You probably still think that this is just a practical joke. You are mistaken—this is no joke. I will give you one more chance to save him. I will be waiting for you at Trafalgar Square tonight. If I find that you are not there by midnight, you will be sorry!_"__

At the bottom of the message was a fingerprint in crimson blood that was undoubtedly Mycroft's. 

"No…"

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A/N: Before you ask, Leona will be explained later. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Tensions

**Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes. Please don't sue.**

**A/N: Hi, guys. Sorry about the delay in this chapter, but my muse wasn't cooperating with the plot flow. Real life didn't mitigate things, but I'm not here to complain (Hopefully, Chapter 4 will take less time to write). Thanks to all of you who reviewed-hope this chapter meets your expectations. Well, without further ado, here's Chapter Three!**

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**Chapter 3-**

_Tick, tick, tick_

The steady, ever-present heartbeat of the old grandfather clock in the darkest corner of the room did little to soothe my nerves as I stared into the blazing fire, awaiting my companion's return.

"How are we going to get out of this one?" I muttered to myself, glancing away from the fire's hypnotic, dancing flames. The question faded into the silence of the comfortably lit room without any hope of an answer.

Sighing, I slowly sauntered across the room to wind the old timepiece for the day, still turning over the evening's events over in my troubled mind. The silver pendulum captured my gaze as it caught the flickering light from the hearth, glinting and flashing as it swung in graceful arcs to and fro below the clock's intricately carved face. My thoughts returned to my last encounter with the Moriarty Gang at Reichenbach Falls many years ago. Sunlight had reflected into my sight from Holmes's silver cigarette case, which had held the last note that I had thought I would receive from my long time friend. 

"_I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence_," he had said in the note regarding Professor Moriarty, "_though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you_."*

"He didn't take you down with him before," I stated resolutely into the empty room. "I won't let him beat you this time."

'_But what is there that _you_ could do?_' the sceptic in my mind asked sourly, sounding surprisingly like Holmes's sardonic drawl. I was once again sorely reminded that my friend was still out there in the blizzard, leaving me here helpless with nothing to do and no one for company but my own thoughts.

"I could go to Scotland Yard, and seek help from one of their inspectors," I mused. "God knows that they owe Holmes enough to repay him a favour."

'_Much too slow, that would be to do any good,_'the sceptic retorted dismissingly. '_Everything takes twice as long to implement in those circles of bureaucracy. Furthermore any official undertaking of the sort would gather too much publicity and alert Omega. The detectives from Scotland Yard would probably find a way to put this case in the papers so the world will know that _Sherlock Holmes _went to _them_ for help. Mycroft's name will be in the obituaries before they even file the case report."_

"Well, there has to be some way to investigate this without turning to any outside help," I responded determinately, trying desperately to recall Holmes's methods of detection. "I know that the Omega faction is responsible for this, so I could go to Professor Moriarty's rooms. There's bound to be some evidence there pointing to where they have Mycroft."

'_The Professor is dead,_' the sceptic pointed out rather severely, as if conversing with an extremely dull and temperamental child. '_Holmes himself saw Moriarty's plunge down Reichenbach Falls. There will be no reason for anyone in the surviving Omega faction to go to their former leader's lodgings. You will do Holmes no good by throwing yourself in jail after committing a felony and ransacking the late Professor's rooms without avail. The only thing that this will succeed in doing will be to alert Omega of your nosing; they will surely be watching the premises carefully."_

Inevitably frustrated with myself, I threw up my hands in despair and gave in to pacing furiously before the hearth crackling merrily in mockery of my black mood. "This is hopeless!" I cried aloud, inwardly cursing my incompetence. Surely Holmes would have formulated some ingenious plan to save his brother by now.

The grandfather clock's last chime of the ninth hour came and went without the firm and steady tread of my friend's footsteps on the corridor outside. I was slightly worried by Holmes's lack of presence, as he was rarely late without good reason.

"Perhaps he has found something useful in his brother's rooms," I mused hopefully as I collapsed into my favourite armchair, praying that the sceptic would be thankfully silent.

'_Or perhaps he has run into one Omega's many agents?_' the cynic in me asked ruthlessly, undeterred by my inward plea for peace. '_What if he's been attacked? Or worse, hurt? Even dead?'_

"Holmes has tackled and beaten them before," I assured my frantic thoughts. "He's gotten the upper hand at the end of every confrontation with Omega in the past. He's resourceful enough to keep himself on his two feet."

'_What if Holmes has gone looking for his brother without you?_' the sceptic asked. '_What if he's left you behind?'_

The thought drifted into the silence of the room unanswered, echoing ominously in my mind. If indeed Holmes had gone on without me, there was little I could do to mitigate the situation.

***

The door swung open slowly just as the clock began to chime half past nine, drawing me out of my reverie of helplessness. Holmes sauntered in heavily with an air of coldness, his face graver than I'd ever seen him. There was no spark of life in those eyes that mirrored the storm clouds outside, no spring of energy in his legs as he dragged his feet to his usual seat by the fireplace without even taking off his hat or winter coat. Thankful as I was to see him safe and apparently unharmed, it was disappointing to find that there was nothing to assuage me of my turbulent concerns.

"Holmes?" I asked cautiously after stepping behind him to close the door. Holmes turned suddenly towards me from his chair by the fire; and, to my utter surprise, fixed me with a piercing, scrutinizing stare that I had not seen since the first days of my acquaintance with the man. Our eyes locked for a few seconds that dragged on like eternities, before Holmes was apparently satisfied with what he found and slumped back into his chair with a dejected sigh.

"The situation grows darker," said he, before launching into a vivid description of his findings at Pall Mall. My already turbid mood grew more sombre as he continued his account, and when he had finished, Holmes and I were wearing similar frowns upon our foreheads.

"What will you do now?" I asked quietly, still inwardly reeling with the new information Holmes had provided.

"There is only one choice," Holmes responded grimly, his shoulders sagging from the pressures that the evening had brought. "There can be little doubt that Colonel Moran is behind all of this-there is no one else who would have the power and resources to accomplish the kidnapping so successfully. I must comply with Moran's wishes and meet his appointment."

I imagine that I must have looked hilarious had the situation been not so serious. I gawked. For a whole minute, I had my mouth hanging open like a goldfish before I had realised. I then blinked, shook my head, and checked my ears three times, to make sure that I still had my senses. I opened my mouth gapingly, but words wouldn't seem for form. 

"HOLMES, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!" I exclaimed once I had regained control of my voice. Ignoring my friend, whose eyes flashed dangerously with anger, I took several deep breaths before continuing. "Don't you realize it's a trap? What if we get hurt, or worse, killed? We won't do your brother any good as corpses!"

"And what will you have me do if you are intelligent?" Holmes retorted icily with his eyes narrowed into menacing slits. "There is nothing I can do unless, in your omniscience, you happen to know where Moran is keeping Mycroft. Going to the police or attempting to search for Mycroft would only ensure his name in the obituaries on tomorrow's morning newspaper. There is no reason for you to come with me, Watson; as far as I am concerned, there is no 'we' in this matter. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be leaving now."

Before I could say any more, Holmes stood and swiftly swept out of the room.

"Holmes!" I yelled hysterically as I ran after him into the outside hallway, desperately trying to make my friend see reason. "You cannot do this! There has to be another way! Don't throw your life away for this!"

He paused at the foot of the stairs and glared frigidly back up at me from the lower landing. "You do not control me, Watson," he uttered frostily, before striding back out into the night and slamming the door closed with a resounding bang.

All energy seeped from my body as I collapsed to my knees and slumped dolefully against the hard wall. Holmes was now out there alone without any source of aid, and all my efforts had only served to drive him faster out of the door.

'_Now he's going to die hating you,'_ the cynic stated excitedly as I shut my eyes in regret.

"What have I done?"

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Note: * Quote was from Final Problem by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	5. Moving of the Pieces

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and related characters are not puppets of my possession…::sigh::

**A/N: I do seem to be getting worse with the review time, don't I? Sorry, guys, but Real Life is getting in the way of story-writing, what with 3 major projects coming up in the next two weeks or so… Hopefully the slightly longer lengths of the chapters will make up for the time gaps between instalments. Anyways, thanks again to all of those who reviewed; hopefully this chapter will convince you that Holmes isn't completely off his rocker, _yet_…Now, without further ado, here's Chapter 4!**

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**Chapter 4-**

I found myself reeling with anger as I strode down Baker Street, now empty of the bustling crowds at this late hour, for the second time on this accursed evening. The storm was still blowing with as much icy vigour as it had for the past few hours, showing no signs of relenting any time soon. Bitterly cold blasts of snow flurries penetrated my heavy coat, the only protection I had, and bit sharply at my skin and very bone.

The weather did little to douse my lingering flame of resentment at Watson, my so-called Boswell._ 'What gives _him_ the right to call me crazy and order me around?!' _I thought furiously, scowling into the deserted darkness_. 'He doesn't understand anything!'_

'_He doesn't understand because you won't tell him' _my logical side countered. '_He's trying to help you and you've pushed him away._'

"No!" I found myself saying aloud with a firmness that surprised me.

There was no need for him to know, I finally convinced myself silently, continuing down Oxford Street. '_Every time I have to do this…_' I thought as I heaved a sigh, my breath making billows of mist that swirled in the wind.

Turning the corner into one of the many dark, winding alleys that made the labyrinth of London, I suddenly halted as the distant echoes of footsteps caught my sensitive ear. The sounds stopped as soon as I had, and I peered around, pretending to be searching for the right turn of the street. '_This makes things a little more interesting,_' I mused with a grim smile.

I continued down the crooked alleyway, before making a sudden right into an arcade, my new shadow tailing me all the while. After countless turns and backtrackings, I arrived at a small pub, so dingy that there wasn't even a sign hanging above the cracked and chipped door.

I stepped in, glad for the radiating warmth that exuded from the four walls of the small, fire-lit room, and made my way to the bartender stand, ignoring the awkward stares of those around me.

"Evenin', guv'," the bald bartender called as he smiled, showing a row of blackened and missing teeth. "Usual, I s'ppose?" 

"Not tonight," I answered curtly. "I'll just have a whiskey, thanks."

The man caught my eye for an instant, before saying, "Right, you are then, guv'. I've got just the thing that'll suit your tastes."

I nodded my thanks as the bartender shuffled into his back storage room, and turned, peering around at the co-inhabitants of this room. Most of them had returned to their alcohol and their previous conversations, but I knew that my shadow had entered with me.

He was loitering in the corner by the door with his chin on his chest, puffing half-heartedly at a pipe. He'd donned a wide-brimmed hat atop a mane of dark, grizzly hair which effectively hid the features of his gaunt face. A black, flowing cloak of coarse cloth covered his tall figure, concealing his muscular frame that was evident only from the width of his shoulders. As I continued to scrutinize him with my peripheral vision, the man shifted, and his sleeve slid down to bare his arm for a moment, revealing to me a singular mark on his wrist. '_A man from Omega, then,_' I reflected to myself, turning back to the table before me.

My drink was soon brought to me, carried by the scruffily dressed head of my Baker Street Irregulars, Sam Wiggins. "Will that be all for you, guv'?" He asked without betraying any signs of recognition as he placed the drink on the table.

I picked up the glass and swirled it around once, before quickly tapping out the Morse Code for "Lion Sq" on the water-condensed side. "No, that'll be all, thank you."

Wiggins nodded in assent as I paid him for the drink, and disappeared as quickly as he had come. '_That boy is smarter than he knows_,' I mused with a soft chuckle as I enjoyed the fiery liquid rolling down my slightly parched throat.

I finished my drink at a leisurely pace before sneaking a glance at my pocket watch. '_I'd best be going_,' I thought to myself as I glanced at the hands pointing firmly at 11 and 6, and surreptitiously made my way back out of the pub. My shadow had apparently already left the building, and I found him lurking in the darkness as the light from the pub reflected from his eyes. 

The snow had still not let up, so upon arriving on the nearest main street, I hailed the nearest hansom with a shrill whistle.

_'At least I have a plan,_' I contemplated as I stared out at the bright orbs of lamplight whirling by. '_Wiggins will work in much less public circles than Watson, and he knows what he's doing. He will not miss this summons._'

I stopped a few streets before Trafalgar Square, making the rest of the way on foot to calm my nerves. So many things could go wrong in such situation. What if Wiggins got caught? What if Moran didn't not hold up his side of the bargain?

'_How else am I to discover the location of their headquarters by midnight without exciting Moran's suspicion_?' I thought furiously. '_Moran knows the value of the cards he holds, and he won't be afraid to play mercilessly. If I make any mistake in this, Mycroft will surely be the one who will feel its effects the most._'__

Trafalgar square was empty of both people and pigeons as I sauntered towards the sculpture in the centre with a light tread. The blizzard, though beginning to wane, still provided ample cover for all the players in tonight's scene. Brushing the snowflakes off my shoulders, I took an opportunity to glance around at the empty surroundings. I seemed to have lost my shadow, as I couldn't see him lurking in any of the branching side streets. As I made my way to the other side of the square, I spotted the loping form of a dingy terrier as it sniffed around for a scrap of food. '_Good, the boys are here,_' I thought with a small smile of relief, watching Baker Street Irregular Charlie Odgeon's dog disappear once again into the darkness. Returning to the central statue, I waited for Omega under the metallic paw of the giant, majestic lion. 

***

The distant chime of bells struck the midnight hour, and still no one had come with the ushering of the new day. I stepped out of the shadows briefly and surveyed the square. The storm clouds had parted slightly, allowing the pale face of the full moon to shine its silver shafts of light over the empty paved and cobbled streets. Nothing could be seen stirring in the dark and swirling abyss. My only companion seemed to be the whirling snowflakes that had lost their previous ferocity; they opted instead to drift gently down as a thousand feathers bursting from a down pillow.

Heaving a heavy sigh, I was about to return to my shelter underneath the giant metallic beast when the slightly muffled sound of footsteps reached my ears once again. The steps, irregular and shuffled with an unsteadiness that betrayed the mark of age, were interspersed with the hollow tap of wood. As I craned my neck toward the noise, a small, cloaked figure, bent and huddling on the long crooked shaft of a wooden staff, came into view illuminated by a flickering streetlamp. The figure hobbled onward in my direction, seemingly oblivious to my presence as she hummed a quiet tune with a feminine voice. I stepped back into the shadows once again as she neared, when suddenly, the elderly woman tripped with a groan and collapsed into a trembling heap.

My morals got the better of me as I emerged from my hiding spot and approached the old lady with the intention of helping her back to her feet, ignoring any thoughts of suspicion. 

"Are you all right, Madam?" I asked politely once she had both hands firmly attached to her staff once more.

To my utter surprise, the woman swiftly straightened her back so that her hooded face was almost level with mine "Yes, thank you Mr. Holmes," she said in a strong voice of youthful vigour.

My eyes widened with realisation at the trap, and at the sound of a muffled yell, I whirled around just in time to dodge the heavy fist hurtling furiously towards me. 

'_No_,' I thought desperately as I caught sight of Odgeon's struggling form, squirming and writhing under my former shadow's grasp.

Putting my boxing skills to good use, I returned the Omega member's punch with swift left-jab in the stomach and an elbow to the shoulder, before swinging a well aimed upper cut at his jaw to successfully bring the man to the ground with a thud, causing him release his catch.

"RUN!" I cried and watched with relief as the boy scampered away with a cat's agility, disappearing into the snowy night. '_At least they'll never be able to catch him now_.'

Just as I was readying myself for a second bout against the rising man before me, I felt a sharp crack of pain blossoming from the nape of my neck, sending the ground flying up to meet me. '_Always watch your back_,' I reprimanded myself before all faded to darkness.


	6. Interlude: A Midwinter Day's Tale

**Interlude- A Midwinter Day's Tale**

"Come here, Sherlock, my boy," Father's commanding voice resounded sharply into the vast corridor, blending with the thump of my hurried footsteps against the wood. I scampered down the large oak staircase as quickly as I could, trying in vain to button up my new, very stiff, black waistcoat.

"I'm coming, Father," I responded dutifully as I arrived at the high double doors leading into the front parlour, my father's words, _respond if and only if you are spoken to; respect must always be shown to your elders_, echoing in my mind.

Abandoning the buttons of my waistcoat as a futile exercise, I looked to briefly examine my reflection on the polished wooden surface before me. A slender faced boy with pale eyes and slightly tousled dark hair blinked bemusedly back as I reached for the intricately carved brass handle on the entrance before me. _Always ensure a pristine appearance; the first way to tell crudeness is through a man's clothing_, I recalled as I raked my fingers through my hair once to calm the slight mess before I ventured to step through the threshold.

The first sight to greet my eyes as I peeked into the spacious and chilly room was my mother seated straight-backed at her usual velvet cushioned chair by the empty hearth with her needle at hand, busily working on her embroidery. Tall and almost painfully thin, she was clad in the same garment she always wore—a simple plain black dress with no extravagances whatsoever. The darkness of her clothing was awkwardly juxtaposed against her light blue eyes and locks of strawberry blonde hair that were always tightly knotted into a strict bun. She glanced up as I closed the well oiled door with a quiet click and offered me a small smile that indicated her former beauty as I stepped further into the parlour.

"Good, Sherlock, I'm glad to see that you're as punctual as always," Father stated firmly, and I turned with a jolt to see his gaunt and austere figure looming by the open window. The pale rays of the morning sun glistened over his head of carefully combed jet black hair just beginning to give way to strands of grey, and cast half of his face into darkness, illuminating only his sharp, hawk-like nose, his jutting high cheekbones, his chiselled angular jaw, and his pair of piercing iron-grey eyes. "Always keep your wits about you, boy," he reprimanded sharply as he took in my shocked expression. "You never want to lose sight of what's around you; it makes it too easy for others to take advantage of you."

"Yes, Father," I replied, schooling my features back into a look of neutrality.

"Now, since it is your birthday today, your mother and I have decided to give you a present," Father continued, his outline silhouetted against the light of the window as he stalked towards me. "Here you go, boy," he continued, handing me a small black leather box. "You may open it now."

I lowered my gaze from his piercing grey eyes that towered overhead to the gift before me, and carefully flipped open the box to reveal an intricate pocket watch of white gold. The family crest was ornately carved onto the silvery outsides of the timepiece, glinting brightly from the morning light. With a slight press of a silver release at the top, the lid popped open with a spring, revealing the equally extravagantly decorated inside. Behind a glass cover, the golden hands of the watch pointed to the Roman numeral hours made of a dark stone that was inlaid in the white opal surface.

"As this is the last year before you leave for boarding school, we thought it appropriate to ensure that you are as prompt to your appointments there as you are here," Father commented idly. "It would not do to foster bad habits."

"Thank you, Father," I replied solemnly, bowing slightly in thanks as I slipped the watch into my pocket, pinning the chain onto my waistcoat.

The thin lips on Father's face twitched slightly, before resuming the stern line once again. "Margaret, bring Leona down, my dear."

"Yes, Sebastian," my mother replied as she placed her needlework neatly beside her and swept quietly out of the room with the swish of her dress.

"Now, my boy," Father continued, beckoning my attention to return to his looming form, "Your brother, Mycroft, will be returning home this evening at 6 o'clock. That means that you still have most of the day to yourself. I think that a trip to London would be just the thing for you."

"Yes, thank you, Father." Trips to London were rare and thus savoured, and I had a most difficult time maintaining my expression of detachment at the thought of all the places we could see in that grand metropolis.

The clicking of the opening door extracted me from my excited thoughts, and I turned around as my mother ushered in followed by my sister, Leona. She was only three years my elder, making it easy for us to relate to one another; and, despite my father's feelings of apathy towards her, she was the closest member of my family to me. Unlike my brother and I, who have inherited Father's straight black hair, Leona was an almost mirror image of her mother, a portrait of whom stood behind thick black drapes in my father's locked study. She had a mane of golden hair the colour of brown sugar glistening in the summer sun. Her eyes, bright drops of fresh liquid honey that stood in stark contrast against her pallid skin, were also different from the cool pools of blues and greys seen in the rest of the family. I remember her telling me once that her mother had named her after her eyes, uttering, "You have the eyes of a lion, my beloved," with a hushed whisper in her ear.

Father did not approve of Leona's appearance as much, however. Her wavy tresses were completely tucked underneath a black cloth bonnet, and her golden eyes were hidden behind a pair of thick wire-rimmed glasses that were unnecessary for her vision. He had never grown close to her—well, as close as he got to anyone—like he had grown close with Mycroft and me. Leona was always the black sheep of the family—the outcast—and Father would always address her with the cold, distancing politeness that he would use in speaking to a servant.

Mycroft told me once that it had to do with Leona's mother, who had died in childbirth soon after naming her. "Father had loved his first wife with a vigour that has never been matched since," my brother had told me once. "The death broke him like nothing else could, and he was a broken man before you brightened his life, Sherlock. Even afterwards, Father blamed Leona for her mother's death, and has never forgiven her since."

"You wanted to see me, sir," she uttered quietly with her head bowed, her rich voice echoing slightly in the vastness of the room.

"You are to accompany Sherlock to London for the day," Father directed sternly. "Take him anywhere he wants to go, but be sure to return by five o'clock; I will hold you accountable for that."

"Yes, sir," was the meekly respectful reply.

"A brougham is waiting for the both of you outside," Father announced in dismissal. "You may leave."

0 0 0

The pale yellow rays of the January sun trickled out from the mounds of puffy, cotton-like clouds for the first time of the year as our coach rattled away from our estate. We had departed as soon as we could, giving ourselves just enough time to collect our coats and cloaks before stepping outside.

The scenery outside was truly a winter wonderland. Green lawn gave way to pure, unblemished white as the vast grounds of my ancestral home were blanketed in a thin, fresh sheet of crisp undisturbed snow. A raven landed gently with a graceful flap upon the tallest branch of the largest oak on the grounds, its glossy ebony feathers contrasting sharply against the snow-laden boughs of the ancient tree. It cawed at us in greeting as our carriage passed by, before spreading its dark wings and taking off once again into the ashen sky.

"I've brought you something for your birthday, Sherlock; I hope you'll like it," Leona's voice uttered brightly from behind me, bringing my attention back into the brougham. She drew out a small bundle of dark blue velvet cloth from within the folds of her coarse black cloak as she spoke, and when I turned to face her, she pressed the folded fabric into my hands. It unravelled into a comfortable and handsome tailcoat with shiny brass buttons that showed my distorted reflection as I stared bemusedly at them. "Sorry, but I didn't have a chance to wrap it."

"It's wonderful!" I exclaimed appreciatively, beaming toothily at her, just itching to give her a bear hug. "Thank you so much Leona, you're the best sister I could ever have!"

"I'm the only sister you can have," Leona retorted airily with lips quirked as she helped me to slip on the coat. "Besides, you don't turn 10 years old every day, so I might as well dote on you a bit."

"Could you take off your camouflage, then?" I asked with as much innocence as I could muster into my voice. Leona shot me an admonishing look, but acquiesced and reached up to remove her glasses. She was always reluctant to take off her "camouflage," as I called it (much to my brother's chagrin), because Father could never bear to see her without her bonnet and spectacles—she had been chastised enough times to realise this. I, on the other hand, enjoyed seeing her without her disguise, as it always made her more relaxed when she didn't have to hide behind her façade. She sneaked a glance at me self-consciously as she removed her cap, allowing a few locks of her wavy hair to bounce freely around her slight cheeks.

"Father will be very cross if he finds out," she mused resignedly as she wrapped her bonnet around her folded pair of glasses and tucked them back into the depths of her cloak.

"You know that I won't tell on you, and Mr. Pierce hasn't ever said anything either," I assured, motioning at the driver. "Besides, this is your chance to be yourself away from Father."

"Oh, Sherlock, don't be so hard on Father," Leona responded with a sigh. "I know that he has a good heart. He just hasn't gotten over some things yet."

The journey was a quiet one after that; the monotony of the ride set in after a few short conversations, and I leaned back, closing my eyes, drifting off as the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses filled my senses.

0 0 0

Of course, when Father said that I could go anywhere I wished in London, he meant that I could visit any of the _museums_ in the city—even Kew Gardens was out of the question, as he didn't approve of wasting time while wandering aimlessly. It was for this reason that Leona and I had headed directly for the British Museum. We spent the rest of the morning quietly examining the intricate Assyrian _lamassu_ sentinels guarding a corridor that lead to reliefs of Mesopotamian gods inscribed with cuneiform writing, and Egyptian sarcophagi of wood and precious metals inlaid with jewels that were inscribed with colourful hieroglyphics and images of the afterlife.

As much as I _enjoyed_ all this perusing of ancient art, I hoped to spend my day with things less morbid than dried corpses belonging to those who had been dead and gone ages before I was even born, and sought for a more exciting turn to our outing. Leona was heading towards the wing containing Asian art when I approached her, synchronising my stride with hers as we walked.

"Can we go visit somewhere else?" I asked as she stopped in front of an ornately painted cerulean Ming dynasty vase.

"Where would you like to go?" She asked, looking from the artefact before her, her eyes peering to gauge my plans.

"How about the zoo?" I suggested eagerly. "I haven't been there in a long time."

"I haven't been there at all, brother mine," Leona responded quietly. "What's more, Father would never approve—you know how much he hates animals. Even if we were allowed, we would never be able to return home by five o'clock if we went there now. There wouldn't be enough time to see everything."

"Oh, come on, Leona, you need to learn how to live a little," I countered more loudly that I ought to have, causing several heads to turn in our direction. "Besides, it'll be a new and fascinating _educational_ experience," I continued in a hushed voice, trying to appeal to my sister's tastes.

"Don't try to tempt me, Sherlock," she countered calmly, empathy showing on her features. "I know that you want to go, but I just don't want to risk getting either of us into trouble—you should know what Father's like when he's angry."

"Well, you're not following Father's instructions either," I retorted sharply, angered by her unwavering opposition to my idea. "He told you to take me wherever I wanted to go."

Leona broke eye contact with me at this, looking down at her pale hands as she thought, before replying. "Why don't we have lunch near Trafalgar Square and then you can go and see all of the pigeons. It's amazing how many birds are there, even at this time of year."

"Fine," I quipped sharply, before staying sullenly silent until we left the museum. Leona stopped me as we approached the front steps before the edifice's Romanesque façade, addressing me as she leaned me against one of the fluted shafts of the Corinthian columns.

"Look, I'm really sorry about earlier," she began with a sigh. "I don't want you to be melancholy on your birthday, and I don't want anyone to be angry with you. Could we make up right now so we can at least enjoy ourselves for the rest of the day? After all, does it really matter where you are, if you're enjoying yourself and your company?"

"No, it doesn't," I responded apathetically with a shrug of my shoulders. Although still a little disappointed that I wouldn't be visiting the zoo, I found myself unable to maintain my resentment against Leona for long—her empathetic features full of honesty could loosen the tightest lips into a smile and thaw out the iciest heart with only one exception to my knowledge.

Even my grudging reconciliation brought a smile to her lips, and it was with brightened amber eyes that Leona took my hand once more and headed in the direction of our waiting carriage.

0 0 0

A small hamper of roast beef sandwiches, warm chicken broth, and fresh apples awaited us in a wicker basket that sat on the leather padded seats when we climbed back in our brougham, which we gladly opened and to which helped ourselves. The food brightened my spirits somewhat, until I bit into a crisp green apple and received a blast of sour juice that stung my taste buds.

"Remind me never to eat those apples again," I muttered with a frown, squeezing my eyes shut and scrunching my tongue in an attempt to disperse the tartness.

"Don't be so hasty about that, Sherlock," Leona replied with a smile at my antics. "The taste isn't as bad as it might seem on the first bite; you might have to eat your words later."

Shooting her an annoyed glare, I threw the apple away and returned to my soup.

0 0 0

"I thought you said that there would be lots of pigeons!" I exclaimed in disappointment, pointing to a scattered group of less than ten birds after expecting to wade through a carpet of birds.

"Well, it is winter, Sherlock," Leona responded calmly. "Most of them must have gone to roost early. At least this is better than nothing, and maybe we can lure a few more with some food." She withdrew some crumbs that remained from our lunch, and placed them into a small glass jar before placing the container into my hands. "Go ahead, Sherlock, try feeding the pigeons some of this."

I glanced at her with scepticism, but decided to humour her and at least give it a shot. Stepping forward, I stood with arm extended, offering the jar of food to the pecking birds. "They're not doing anything," I announced with a huff after a few moments of being ignored by those animals, eliciting a small chuckle from behind.

"They're not going to come to you if you don't even show them that you have food," Leona said with a smile as she stepped up and coaxed the jar from me, scattering a small pinch of crumbs from onto the ground before us.

Soon enough, the pigeons took the hint, and all of them flocked over with a flurry of flaps and feathers, joined even by a raven that had been observing from a nearby rooftop. As Leona knelt down with her palm outstretched, the birds gladly flew up groups—landing on her arms and shoulders—and pecked the leftover crumbs from her hands.

"See, all you have to do is be gentle," she asserted as she stood up with a hearty giggle of jingling bells, lightly stroking some of the cooing birds that were still perched precariously on her shoulders.

"Fine," I replied with exasperation at not being able to perform such a simple task. "Can I try, now?"

Leona beamed brightly, the light of her amusement reaching her twinkling amber eyes, as she took a final pinch from the jar before handing it to me. As soon as the jar touched my fingers, the flock of birds scuttling below us rose up sharply en masse, dive bombing at the crumbs mercilessly.

"Hey, get off!" I cried angrily, startled at the ferocity of their attack.

Undaunted by my outburst, several pigeons landed on the jar itself as they strained and scrambled ravenously for their meal, flapping their wings with such vigour that it created a harsh wind that stood my hair on its ends. The large raven swooped down, its talons latching onto my scalp as it alighted on the top of my head with a caw.

The force of the landing was too much for me, jerking my head forward enough to knock me off balance. The jar slipped from my fingers, and I distantly heard my sister's cry, "Sherlock, be careful!" before I saw the ground speeding up to meet my crumpled form and heard the tinkling of the glass breaking into a thousand shards.

"Oh Sherlock—let me call the carriage—are you hurt? Are you all right?" Leona's voice uttered, filled with alarm and concern as her arms reached out to help me from my sprawled position.

"No, I'm not _all right_," I replied bitterly, shrugging away her hands, hastily brushing off the glass fragments that had dug into my slightly torn trouser legs, and wiping the blood from my grazed hands onto my new waistcoat as I stood. "I've had it with your stupid pigeons!"

"Sherlock, please—"

"No!" I exclaimed, livid as hot fires of fury, that had been threatening to boil over all day, erupted inexplicably from within. "You knew those birds trouble from the very beginning, but you _insisted _that we come here because you knew that they would only like you!"

"Sherlock, please calm down!" Leona implored vehemently as I turned on my heel and started stalking away, scattering any of the remaining birds. "Let's sit down so I can help you clean your scrapes—"

"I don't need _your_ help!"

"Please, Sherlock, stop—you are not in full control of your senses—"

I halted in mid-step at her words, and turned heatedly back to meet her gaze. "So now you're calling me crazy, is that it?" I spat, glaring daggers into her shocked amber eyes. "Well, we'll see what Father has to say about that, you witch!"

She was struck speechless for a moment at my open threat, as we both knew well that, though Father was strict on me, he would always liberally dealt out punishment for Leona whenever he had the slightest provocation. Her eyes closed despondently as she took a deep breath, but she continued with a calmness that betrayed none of her inner thoughts.

"You didn't mean that, brother mine."

That simple statement dissolved all the anger from my heart, leaving an empty hole of weariness in me that weighed heavily upon my shoulders and dragged down my legs and eyelids.

"Let's just go home," I muttered quietly, unable to muster an apology from my lips. I kept my eyes fixed on the paved ground after that, striding swiftly with hands firmly stuck into trouser pockets to where I knew our brougham was waiting.

The world around me faded away as I became lost in contemplation about everything, yet nothing at all. My father's voice drifted into conscious hearing briefly, the words, _your mind is like a storage room—always keep it well organized, _flitting through my mind amidst the swirling torrents of thought before it submerged once more, giving way to a mass of indecipherable confusion.

'_Why did I get so angry_?' I wondered dimly, guilt pouring steadily into my soul at the memory that I had yelled at my sister so only moments before. _Never let the fires of fury consume you. Control must never be lost by allowing others to see that you have been weakened, and you must not sink to the levels of those that are below you_, Father's words beseeched autocratically_. _ Glancing sideways, I observed the flock of pigeons mocking me with bobbing heads as they waddled along beside me, careful to stay just clear of kicking range. '_Blasted birds._'__

Returning my gaze to my feet as they continued to lead me forward, I did not notice when the birds ceased to follow me as I stepped from the pavement. I was deaf to the loud rattling sound issuing urgently from somewhere on my left and oblivious to the muffled gasps issued from the bustling crowd around us. I only raised my head at my sister's frantic shriek of "SHERLOCK, NO!" and saw with widened eyes the black silhouette of a of a horse driven carriage storming towards me before something a solid form collided with me with a such a tremendous force that I was lifted off my feet. Distantly, screams pierced my ears as the ground rose imperiously to meet me for the second time that day, and a searing pain shot up my limbs like fire as my vision was filled with the white of snow, before all dimmed into darkness.

0 0 0

Icy coldness seeped through the empty void, pulling me back earnestly before concentrating into a tiny wet patch on my cheek. A low humming noise could be heard all around me just within hearing range. My eyelids still felt heavy as I tried to lift them to see, and it seemed like an eternity before I found myself staring at a blanket of white once more.

"Are you all right, boy?" A question shot at me with a wizened, husky voice from above, and I could see a pair of polished black boots entering my line of sight.

"I'm fine," I managed to mumble, before turning my stiff neck to the other side.

She was lying there in the snow just beyond my reach, eyes closed in peaceful slumber and mouth parted as though she were about to say something in her sleep. But Leona did not stir at all as one would in normal rest, and her ashen skin, which almost blended in perfectly with the snow beneath her, stood in sharp contrast against a scarlet halo wreathed about her wavy locks of sun-kissed brown.

"Leona?" I called out, with desperation slightly tingeing my voice as I struggled to sit up. She would not respond to me, lying perfectly still with pale lips still open in her silent call. '_Why won't she wake_?' I mused to myself as I shuffled towards where she lay, shaking her shoulders slightly to rouse her.

"I'm sorry, child," the scratchy voice from before uttered quietly, seemingly in response to my thought. "She rushed out into the street to push you away from that brougham, but did not manage to evade the carriage herself."

"No," I managed to choke out hoarsely as I closed my eyes in despair. '_She can't be dead…she was just here a moment ago._'

The raven from the square swooped down and alighted lightly beside her head with a flap of its ebony wings. It calmly took in her silent form with its beady eyes, before turning to scrutinize me. Dark eyes bore sharply into my own, dispelling any vestiges of denial from my mind. A caw issued from its black, angular beak, before it bowed head in mourning.

_It does not do to reveal weakness through a show of tears_,my father's voice instructed from within, but heedless to his words, moisture clouded my vision as thin streaks of water leaked from my eyes and poured down my pale cheeks in thin rivulets before dripping from my chin into the crimson snow. The heavens opened with a tumultuous crescendo, before the soft patter of rain could be heard, joining me in my sorrow as we cried.

0 0 0

Leona's grave was more lavish than anything she ever had in life. An angel carved from marble marked her final resting place, nestled in a small, secluded corner just under the expansive branches of an ancient yew, which sheltered it from the harsh rains of winter and the blazing sun in summer. I stood before its elegant form—standing upon a square pedestal engraved with my sister's name with hands outstretched on either side in welcome, lips parted slightly as hers were on that fateful day, and eyes cast skyward—with a single rose, red as her halo had been, in my hand to pay my final respects.

The funeral itself had been a quiet one. Mycroft and I had really been the only ones there, apart from some of the servants that were closest to her. Father had taken the news harder than expected, due to the realization that he had lost the starkest link to his beloved first wife—his mask of cold neutrality had been firmly in place as the news had been broken a week ago, responding with a detached, "I see," before retreating to his rooms, from which he hadn't appeared since. Mother had insisted on staying in the house with him, offering what little comfort she could through the door as she knelt outside day and night.

A large void had appeared within me since the event, and my heart had not stopped hurting since then. I knew that no one blamed me for what happened, yet guilt gnawed ruthlessly away at my insides each day as I found myself bitterly regretting how I had filled her last moments with fear and melancholy.

I found myself alone at this moment of greatest despair. I could not turn to Mycroft, who was still dealing with his own grief, seeing accusation in his eyes each time those grey orbs stared into mine. In the short span of a week, a rift had formed between my brother and me—once inseparable, he had been closer to me than almost any other—which would probably never completely heal.

As I took in my surroundings, I realized with a tinge of sadness that I was not alone in my loneliness. Leona's grave was the only one beneath the shade of the great yew—her mother had been buried in a different location entirely. She was as alone in death as she had been in life.

Sighing, I let the scarlet budded flower slip from my pallid fingers, watching it idly as it spiralled downwards and landed silently upon the unblemished snow. I made a silent vow to visit this spot often so that she would not be completely alone, and ensure that her sacrifice was not for naught, so that at least within me, her memory would live on.

'_I'll never forget you, sister mine._'

0 0 0

**Disclaimer: See previous chapters**

**A/N:** Sorry about the long delay in posting, but I really wanted to put extra effort in making this chapter work. It doesn't really add a lot plot-wise to Ultimate Challenge, as everything takes place during Holmes's childhood (he's around 10 yrs old at this time), but it does seek to explain reasons behind the actions of several characters, and it does play a role in University Life.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter—the next one will return to the actual plot of the story (I can't leave you with that cliff-hanger forever), and will be posted much sooner, especially since I'm on holiday. Thanks again to all those wonderful reviewers who have been very patient in waiting for this story to develop; I really appreciate you following the story so closely.


	7. Counterpoint

**Disclaimer: Still don't own Holmes…**

**A/N: Thanks to coolpuella for the review—I'm glad that not everyone's abandoned this fic yet, as there's still quite a bit to come (most of the action is still on the way).  This chapter is a bit different from the previous ones, as it is narrated from a perspective you haven't seen yet. I had an _interesting_ time writing it, and I hope you enjoy the result . So, without further ado, on with the plot!**

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**Chapter 5-Counterpoint**

Fire is an element of the utmost intrigue, is it not? It is the source of all light on this earth—giving rise to both day and night—and has the power to bestow both life and death. As I sit before the brightly crackling hearth in this darkened room, the leaping tongues of fire are my only source of illumination and heat, tenderly licking at my stiff and aching bones. Fire was a gift from the gods, yet these same dancing flames—so alluring in their hypnotic beauty—have the potential to harm and destroy, leaving behind only dusty barrenness—the same cold darkness it so readily conquers.

The quiet click of the door from behind breaks me from my reverie. "He's here," the deep, rich voice of my Tigerlily announces softly as she steps forward to rest her small hand upon my shoulder in reassurance.

"Thank you, my dear," I respond as lightly as I can, silently beckoning her for a few more moments of peace.

The comforting pressure on my shoulder disappears after giving me one last fleeting squeeze, before her footsteps resound through my ears once again. "I'll be waiting downstairs with him."

Settling back into my plush, leather covered chair, I return my gaze to the blazing conflagration before me. As much as I would have liked to become entranced by the flames once more, my thoughts turn irrevocably to the impending match I would be forced to play against my one-time foe.

I have kept the presence of the faction clandestine for as long as possible—the current small size of Omega has facilitated my efforts in diverting the notice of the prying eyes of Scotland Yard's bungling constabulary. Over the past three months, my close group of most trusted agents recouped from our first reign has worked tirelessly to rebuild the network by replenishing our pecuniary supply and slowly expanding our web of influence. Our operations have come to a stage such that the time is ripe for a more daring undertaking. After all, Omega is not a mere band of drunken hooligans committing petty crimes—our system allowed and will allow again access to all the treasures of London. Only one more task is necessary before we will have enough strength and manpower to bring ourselves into the light.

The plan is not my own—very little was in this faction; James had spoken of it before we had left for Reichenbach Falls.

"_In the extremely unlikely event that we do not both return from this undertaking, my friend, I have made the necessary arrangements to ensure the continuation of our organization,_" he had told me, slipping a thin slip of notebook paper into my hands with a slight pursing of his thin mouth that was his version of a smile. "_I have left a list of all contacts in one of my government offices. Here is the combination to the safe._"__

"_Where is this office?" _I had asked with silent pride at this appointment.

"_That, I'm afraid you will not discover from me, Shikari,_" he countered lightly as if merely speaking of the weather._ "Although I have faith in your will and your abilities in the hunt, I do not believe that you are capable of fully grasping the extensive and intricate nature of this faction; it will not be to you alone that the gauntlet will fall. You will enlist the services of Mr. Sherlock Holmes should there come a time when I am not present._"

The instruction had startled me almost out of my chair with its absurdity. _"Why would you place the fate Omega's into the hands of that fiend? He's responsible for the very persecution and degradation of our cause! What makes you think that he would be willing to help us?"_

The professor had not seemed fazed at all by my reaction, fixing me with a shrewd calculating glance before calmly explaining as if he were giving a lecture. _"The man is on the same intellectual plane as my own, and would thus be most suited to undertake the development of our more ambitious tactics. _

_"I have taken into account his…_virtuous_ morals. He possesses enough reason to understand our aims. He shall be more forthcoming once you provide ample leverage; every man has his price."_

This "leverage" comes in the form of the small, oval-shaped sterling silver locket intricately etched with spirals and swirls that I withdraw from my waistcoat pocket as I leave the comfort of my chair.

If I didn't have so much respect for my late friend, and if there were some other practical course of action, I would have sought for a better way out of this situation—one that ensures ample doses of pain and suffering upon the part of that meddlesome villain who had brought about the first destruction of this organization. Now, I must protect and tend to the wishes of the one man whom I wish revenge upon beyond any other—the man who forced years of anguish and torment upon me. Still, I can be _persuasive _when necessary, and perhaps the added incentive of the brother will be enough. With successful completion, second reign of power will be upon us, and until then, I must bite back my anger—I have come too far to let the faction that I rebuilt from its crumbling foundations go to waste again.

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He lies there, quite still, slumped on the cracked, roughly hewn kitchen table with wrists uncomfortably bound to the sturdy legs by a piece of rough fabric. The light from a single gas lamp on the nearby cabinet casts heavy shadows upon his otherwise strikingly pallid features. Bringing the lantern closer, I distinguish the typical reddening from scraped knuckles and regard with a morbid smirk the slight pool of dark liquid seeping onto the wooden surface beneath his skull.

"Did you really have to hit him that hard, my dear?" I ask, shaking my head in morbid amusement at my Tigerlily's…_tenacity_.

"I had only wanted to make sure," she retorts coldly. "He'd injured Peterson quite severely."

"Of course," I respond with a smile. "You are quite right not to take chances with him. However, the wound may make him less inclined to trust us."

She glances at me in incredulity at this, as if gauging my sanity. "Why would we want him to do that?"

"Because his trust is imperative for the success of our plan," I respond simply, returning my gaze to the unconscious man before me as he begins to stir.

"Stand back, he's coming to," Tigerlily cautions me as his eyelids flutter open to reveal bleary, grey eyes. They remain disoriented for a brief moment as they roll this way and that, scanning the darkened room with bemusement. When his eyes finally fix upon mine, his features harden into a mask of stony defiance.

"'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,' isn't that right, Mr. Holmes?" I inquire mockingly, hardly able to contain the smirk that tugs at my lips now that the tables have turned so obviously.

He raises an eyebrow at this, clearly recalling, as I have, those same words uttered during our precious meeting. "It seems pleasantly so, Colonel Moran," he acknowledges evenly, his emotions unreadable from his quiet tone.

"Welcome to the Omega headquarters," I continue in a jovial voice. "You should consider yourself fortunate, Mr. Holmes. Very few have stepped past the threshold of our oak doors."

"Forgive me if I don't seem too honoured, _Shikari_," comes the curt reply.

The smile on my face falters slightly at the jibe, before returning once more. "You should be more careful of what you say, Mr. Holmes—you don't want more deaths on your hands now do you?"

His jaws clench slightly, but he is unable to provide a rebuttal, choosing instead to pose a question of his own. "Why did you go to such trouble just to bring me here? It is evident that you do not want me dead, yet I hardly think that you would undertake such measures only to enjoy a chat with your old foe."

"You think you're so clever, Holmes," I reply with narrowed eyes, "but you fail to see what is right before your eyes. The explanation is simple: you have something that I want, and I have something that you want—perhaps we can come to an agreement of some sort."

"What makes you so sure that I will give it to you?"

"I'm sure you are willing to negotiate at the very least," I state smugly, before affixing a questioning glance at him. "That is why you have come, is it not?"

He pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts as he realises that my deck is higher than his. "What do you want?"

My face cracks a slight smirk of triumph as I match his piercing gaze evenly. "You have a piece of information for me from the late professor—"

"No."

"Please, Mr. Holmes—"

"There is nothing you can offer me that will convince me to comply," he asserted firmly, fixing me with a sharp glare that showed his inflexibility.

"Do not be so rash in coming to such decisions" I continue admonishingly, speaking slowly as if to a tantrum-inclined five-year-old. "Your brother's welfare is in your hands, after all."

He paused slightly at this, and there was a glint of something in his eyes, before he reined his features back into apathy. "Fine. Kill him."

"You asked earlier why I have gone to such lengths to bring you here, but I could turn to you with the same question. _Carefully_ consider why you have answered my summons this evening, Mr. Holmes," I warn, inserting a slight menace into my voice. "Would you really leave your own _kin_ to that fate," I posed, not affronted by his brunt decline, "even though you have come all this way to meet me?"

"One life is a small price to pay to ensure that others are spared from your persecution," he replies stonily, clearly prepared to stand his ground.

"Spare me the melodrama, Holmes," I drawl sardonically with a dismissing wave. "You are wasting both of our times."

"Good, then we are both in agreement."

Closing my eyes to stay off the mounting frustration surging within me, I take a deep breath. "Perhaps I should give you some time to reconsider your decision. I shall return in the morning."

"Do as you wish, _Shikari_," he retorts in an apathetic voice that grates on my nerves. "My decision will not be swayed."

Sneering inwardly, I force my features to remain neutral as I step away from the table and exit the darkened room. '_I would not be so sure, Mr. Holmes._'

0 0 0

Morning always comes too early in the summertime, I realise as I am dragged from a restless sleep by bright shafts of sunlight streaming in between the curtains. With the coming of this new day, the dilemmas arising from my last conversation with Holmes return in full force, demanding to be resolved.

Qualms have begun to mount within me as I recall Holmes's stubborn refusal to concede the night before. As I take out the silver locket to examine it once more, I start to doubt its efficacy in bending his will. How will this simple necklace make him change his mind when the fate of his own brother did nothing to budge him? Of course, there are other, less pleasant ways of attaining the necessary information, but I am not willing to resort to any sort of physical torture just yet.

Thinking back to our conversation the night before, I realise that I had been too rushed in my actions. Holmes did have a genuine concern for his brother—otherwise he would not have made an appearance at Trafalgar Square. Yet, he called my bluff and stood by it firmly enough to buy him a few more hours. Well, bluffing is a game that two can play, and I've been known for my aptitude for cards. '_You won't manage to pull the same trick twice, you devil._'

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            "Have you reconsidered my proposition, Mr. Holmes?" I inquire, standing before his bound form once more.

            Silence greets me in response as Holmes fixes me with a sullen stare.

            "Since you appear to have lost your tongue, perhaps I should help you recover it," I continue more sternly than before. "Since you have apparently no regard for your brother's life—" (he clenches his jaw with bristling anger at this) "—I will place something else on the bargaining table."

I let the silver locket slip from my fingers, dangling alluringly before Holmes's face with graceful arcs on its delicate chain. "Do you recognise this? It once belonged to someone you know," I explain quietly, bringing the chain closer, swaying it before him as if it were a pendulum.

At first, his eyes narrow in suspicion, as if questioning my sanity and intelligence in choosing this tiny little trinket—after all, why would he submit to my wishes for a jewel when he would not in exchange for his brother's life? But just as I begin to think that he is going to spit out another refusal, his features soften into an expression akin to those worn by the hypnotised and his eyes become entranced as they follow each swing of the hanging pendant.

"I shall comply with your wishes," he concedes dreamily, still engrossed by the necklace before him.

"Very well," I respond quietly still surprised at the inexplicable effect the jewellery had upon the detective. "I'm glad you made the prudent decision."

My words seem to snap him out of his daze, but he makes no move to withdraw his assent—not that I would have taken it in any case—opting instead to pose a question. "Will you release me from these bonds now that I have agreed to your terms?"

"How do I know that you are not tricking me?" I blurt out, suddenly suspicious at his unexpected consent—as easily drawn from him today as it was difficult to sway him from his immovable stance the day before.

"I could ask you the same thing," he shoots back quickly. "You still have Mycroft in captivity, after all."

"Indeed," I concede slightly, fixing him with my stare. "Tell me where it is."

"I can't do that."

"What?"

"There would be no point—you do not know of the location, I'm sure. I will show you where it is."

Grinding my teeth, I extract a small, intricately carved dagger from its casing concealed within the folds of my coat and stride imperiously towards him. The action must have seemed intimidating, I note with internal satisfaction, as his eyes widen almost imperceptibly in alarm. With a swift stroke, I sever the one of the ties binding Holmes's wrists, leaving him to untie the other himself.

"Let me see Mycroft _alone_," he implores once he extricates from the second restraint in a firm tone that is more commanding than pleading.

I am reluctant to concede to his wishes, as this may be the first step towards a conspiracy between the two brothers against my organization and me. So much can go wrong, even at this late stage of the game—together, they could lead me into a trap while pretending to retrieve the list.

Sensing my clear disinclination, he adds overbearingly, "he will assist us in gaining access to the building."

With this statement, I find that my hands are tied. "Five minutes alone with him, and not a second more," I affirm resolutely, before turning my attention to Tigerlily, who has surreptitiously observed our exchange from the shadows since I had entered the room. "Julia, would you kindly show our guest to Mr. Holmes's current residence, my dear?"

She nods coldly in assent—understanding all of my instruction—before motioning towards to door. "If you'll come this way..."

My lips curl slightly into a small smirk as the door closes behind their departing figures, glad for a moment's calm and respite. '_Two can play the game of deception, Mr. Holmes._'


	8. Tigerlily

**Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes.**

**A/N: Thanks to all those who have continued to read and support this story—I'm glad that Moran was convincing enough, because you'll be seeing more of him as the story unfolds. This chapter is a bit short, as it provides a brief pause for character development before the action continues...there will be new plot not seen in the previous version in the following chapters, so please stay put. **

**P.S. Those of you who have read New Ally, be wary of nuggets in the words!**

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**Chapter 6- Tigerlily**

The strangely familiar woman stepped from her spot in the darkest corner and made to beckon me through the exit. She stood in the doorway as still and as poised as a marble statue; nothing in her pale porcelain features betrayed any of her inner emotions. As I passed, her shocking light blue eyes hardened into jagged shards of ice as she haughtily followed my progression without moving her head.

A flash of recognition overcame me as she stepped into the illumination of the candlelit corridor. Even had I not noticed the slight tilt of the chin away from me that signalled an inclination to hide her face and the piercing look in her eyes, the angular nose and stark blond hair tied stiffly into a bun gave away her secret at once.

"Julia Stamford," I uttered breathlessly, wondering how Peter's sister could have strayed so far. "You were at Trafalgar Square last night, weren't you?"

"I was wondering whether you would recognise me," she responded evenly, averting her gaze from me for the first time that morning.

"Why are you here?" I asked, recalling with a stab of anguish how fondly Stamford had always spoken of his sister. '_This news will crush him, I'm sure._'

Her eyes flashed with a glint of indescribable fury as she fixed them again upon my own, and her voice shook slightly despite the vice-like grip she held over her emotions. "_That_ is not your affair."

"Have you spoken with your brother? He'll be very concerned—"

She barked a harsh laugh at this. "_Concerned?!_" she spat venomously with as much disgust as if she had uttered a blasphemy. "He was always too busy with his duties at the hospital. My _brother _never showed me any _concern_ when he shipped me off to a desert on the other side of the planet! My _brother_ was never _concerned _when I was forcibly ripped from my home! _He _wasn't even _concerned_ enough to respond to my pleas for help. The only reason why I am even alive is due to none of _his_ doing. I think it's a bit _late_ for mere _concern_."

There was very little that I could say to this, and for a time we strode down the narrow corridors in tense silence. Here was yet another obstacle to overcome. The girl had obviously been traumatised, allowing Moran to mould her will and poison her mind effortlessly with an efficacy so cogent that most would be hard pressed to associate this being of ice with the vibrant, vivacious girl she once was.

"Why did you call him that?" she asked unexpectedly as she suddenly halted, turning to me as her penetrating eyes probed suspiciously for any intimation of manipulation.

"What do you mean?" I respond, startled from my thoughts by her query.

"Why did you address Markus as 'Colonel Moran'?"

I blinked away my shock at her words so bluntly spoken, before seeing the minute chink in her almost foolproof façade. "I called him by that name because it is his own." I replied as evenly as I could. "His true name is Sebastian Moran, and he is the current head of the largest crime ring in Britain. He has been responsible for the destruction of countless lives, and he will toss you aside as soon as you have outlived your use."

Her eyes widened briefly in horror at my scathing remark before narrowing dangerously once more. "I have had enough of your lies!" she snapped angrily, rearing herself to full height like a cobra about to strike. "I know what you are trying to do. You think that he brainwashed me into joining him and you want to help _free_ me from his coercion. Markus _saved_ me when no one else would, and has extended me more courtesy and respect than anyone else can claim credit to. I have made my choice—for once—so I think you'd better save your breath, because no one can convince me to leave—not you, not Dr. Watson, and certainlynot my so-called _brother_!"

A thundering bang resounded through the corridor, as Stamford tore open a heavy door with strength fuelled by her boiling anger. "Get in," she hissed frostily, pointing harshly into the impenetrable darkness beyond the threshold. Intemperate fury seethed from her very figure as I passed her by for the second time that morning, but as our eyes met, I could faintly detect something within the depths of her unforgiving flint-like orbs that hinted at the faintest glimmer of inner conflict.

'So her resolve is not as unyielding as I had feared,' I mused with renewed optimism. Perhaps there was still hope yet.


End file.
